And the Words Came Back to Haunt Him
by hoshiww
Summary: And the words came back to haunt Eragon. Be careful of whom you love for fate has a morbid interest in our family. Oneshot.


**And the words came back to haunt him**

**Prompt**: "_Be careful of whom you love; fate has a morbid interest in our family_." Brom, Brisingr. AND _"…your love is of noble birth and heritage." _Angela, Eragon.  
**Genre**: Adventure/Romance  
**Notes**: Please ignore CP's spoiler about the last dragon rider having appeared in the first two books (does that mean s/he isn't in Brisingr? Or was that statement release before Brisingr?). This plot may or may not be clichéd. I have no idea.

* * *

Uru'baen existed as a poor city with many rundown houses packed together lining filthy, potholed streets. Carts and wagons were pulled along those dirty roads, with their owners advertising their goods. Many huddled on their way, ignoring the sellers, pulling their cloaks around their bodies and tried to make themselves go unnoticed by the many soldiers marching their way up and down. An unfortunate boy was pushed into the line of the marching soldiers, stumbling then finally tripped, twisting his ankle in a pothole and landed in front of the lead soldier. As if this were a cue, the people on that street stopped and became hush. The soldier peered at the trembling boy, watching him like a hawk then spat on him. Eragon's fist curled at his side as he watched the display.

"What do you think you are doing, boy?" The soldier raised his foot and brought it down hard on the boy's hand. His mouth tweaked into a satisfied smirk when the boy yelped. Eragon felt the restraining hand on his shoulder.

"Do you love the ground so much? Perhaps I will evict your family, then you can sleep on it every day." The soldier grounded his foot. The boy bit his lips, refusing to sound weak. This only made the soldier growl quietly and apply more pressure. The boy gave in and cried out, his eyes screwing up with pain. Eragon watched with haunted and sorrowful eyes, wishing he could do something or at least have someone do something. As if the gods above had heard him, someone broke through the crowds and sauntered over to the soldier. Eragon couldn't see his face, but he was tall, lean and wore the Empire army uniform too. His hair was long and oily, as if he had it rough for the past few days. He came to a stop behind the boy and finally the soldier looked up and realised he was there.

"What do _you_ think you are doing, Turner? Are you or are you not meant to be patrolling this city? Galbatorix will be quite disappointed." Eragon started and slunk back into the shadows. It was Murtagh. He could recognise that voice anywhere. "Get to it and make it smart!"

"Yessir!" Turner the Terroriser snapped a quick salute to Murtagh before ordering his group to move on again. Murtagh ignored the boy's heartfelt thanks and proceeded to make his way back where he had come from. Meanwhile the crowd was starting up again with yells and bartering resuming their normal loudness. The hand on Eragon's shoulder tightened sending triggers of pain, as if the owner knew that Eragon wanted to run after Murtagh and maybe bash him into pulp. Eragon stood still, letting the urge disappear before turning to Roran.

"Let's go," Roran murmured. "We need to get the mission done before you go around righting every wrong there is here."

Eragon grimaced. Roran was wrong. Eragon already knew that helping the boy would not have any good consequences, it would only result in the soldiers and people around to realise that he was Eragon, the Empire's most wanted. Really, it was up to karma to decide if bad or good came from such an action, but Eragon wasn't ready to gamble with it. He took one last look around, nodded, and slipped off into the backstreets of the city.

The pair made their way to the northern side, hurrying past abandoned boxes, slumped figures of the homeless and dirty washing hanging on a line. An old man saw them and cowered, possibly from their suspicious attire of black hooded cloaks. They looked like black ghosts, flittering through the city on their unholy business, preparing to wreck havoc and when Eragon thought about it, they really were going to wreck havoc and throw this city into chaos. If Galbatorix were to discover that the last dragon egg was gone from his possession like sunlight through glass, he was going to be very angry. The Varden have already prepared for the worst, a savage attack on their base in Gil'ead, with perhaps Murtagh leading. However, now that Eragon thought about it, if Galbatorix were smart, he would strike now and take Eragon down himself because, really, even if they had the egg, the Rider for it hasn't been found and Galbatorix still had the advantage of Murtagh and Thorn. Eragon unconsciously gritted his teeth. No, Galbatorix was now very unsure of himself after the Varden campaign had launched and was so successful, stampeding through Alagaesia and taking the major cities away from his hold. Galbatorix would then be sitting back and brooding, all the while trying to build up some more strength, by which time—the Varden had predicted— Eragon would have trained the new Rider sufficiently to be able to work together to defeat Murtagh and Thorn before going for the kill. Eragon shook his head. Now was not the time for thinking, it was time to act.

The royal palace dominated the north-eastern area of the city, a fortress so mighty and fine, Eragon couldn't help but think it represented Galbatorix's powerful and totalitarian rule all too well. It looked impenetrable for the walls were three meters high and too smooth to be scaled, and the towers and turrets that loomed over gave the impression that if one entered, one could get lost and never come out again (unless you met ole Galby in a good mood and he showed you out). However, on closer observation, Eragon, now with his keen elfish senses, could discern places where the palace needed repair, such as pockmarks here and there where the stone had been eaten away by wind and rain. That, Eragon concluded, was the telltale sign of the Varden or the corruption that led to the formation of the Varden, taking its toll on the Empire. At that thought, Eragon's lips twitched into a small smirk.

"What are you smiling at, Eragon? Spot a good-looking young lady with those eyes of yours? Arya will be disappointed!" Roran gave a playful jab at Eragon's arm. Eragon smacked at the offending hand and it evolved into a small mock fight. They kept at it for a while, Eragon aiming for Roran's armpits while Roran made quick pokes at Eragon's stomach. Suddenly, a bell tolled, signalling the time of sundown, when most people hurried back into their humble abodes, leaving the homeless to fend the cold for themselves. The heavy ringing sent a jolt through Eragon, reminding him of where he was and why he was here. Roran gave him a slap on the back and a push towards the castle.

Quickly Eragon made the proposed link between their minds and felt the fire that was Roran bubble away in his head. It gave him more confidence. He tested out the link and was relieved when Roran answered, relieved to have a presence in his mind once again as Saphira was out of reach for him. He moved on, wrapping the cloak tightly around his frame and stole away into the night. He watched a lone figure on the wall, watched as he slowly entered his mind, breeching his weak defence easily, and found a very recent memory of drinking. Eragon felt, well, thankful that the watcher was a heavy drinker. He jabbed experimentally at the mind and watched amusedly as the person thought, 'did I drink something?'. He jabbed again and was entertained with the thought 'Maybe I had one beer too much.' As the watcher was occupied with those thoughts, Eragon easily slipped to a boulder and pushed it aside. A few months back, he thought grimly to himself, such a task would have been impossible. As it was, he quickly stepped into the hole that it revealed and found a step. Finding his way by touch, Eragon finally made it to the bottom where he promptly tried to haul the stone back over. He frowned when he could do no such thing and used the link between him and Roran to ask Roran to replace it.

_It looks fine as it is; in fact it looks as if the boulder hasn't moved._

"Brisingr," Eragon muttered into the dark. He drew out his sword and held it like a torch, keeping his magic to a minimum so that Brisingr barely lit his way with its ghostly blue light. He travelled along the tunnel for what felt like an hour to him. He never like closed spaces; he liked to be free in the sky, sitting on the back of a tumbling Saphira. He wasn't claustrophobic, he kept repeating to himself, he was just… highly uncomfortable. He nodded to himself. He wasn't scared, not at all. He inched onwards little by little, trying to ignore the stuffy atmosphere in there. He was infinitely glad when he came to a set of steps again and practically rushed up it, nearly forgetting to extinguish Brisingr's flame. He lifted the stone trap door a fraction and looked out, looking for anyone. He let his mind probe around, wandering here and there, not knowing exactly the limits of the room were. His mind was like a small boy testing the water with his foot gingerly. Abruptly, as if he had just touched a slimy fish, his mind reared back and quickly Eragon ducked back down, the stone moving back into place with a low plop sound. He waited with baited breath as he wondered what to do now. There was a person in the room, and he or she, Eragon had gathered from how the foreign mind had suddenly snapped at his intrusion, knew that he was here. Eragon cursed and hunkered down a little, feeling like a mouse trapped in its hole by a cat. A tap was heard on above on the stone and a yell of triumph was heard. Then a voice called out above Eragon.

"I know that you're under this stone! It sounds hollow and much thinner than all the others."

Eragon quickly made up his mind. He was to go out and once he was out, attack with magic, sealing the person's limbs and mouth while simultaneously assaulting the mind. He nodded to himself and prepared the necessary words. He lifted the stone trap door up an inch and peeked over, expecting an attack. However all he got was a view of a girl with her hands raised up. She was an ordinary girl, with greasy black hair and clear brown eyes set in a pale, oval face. She looked so plain, with no distinguishing mark except for a pointy chin and a smaller than usual nose. She wore dirty, black clothes and a grease-streaked white apron over it. Quickly taking the chance, Eragon quickly uttered a word in the Ancient Language, and watched as the girl's face morphed into one of surprise before twisting into anger and opening her mouth. Eragon swiftly glued her mouth shut with magic, then savagely strike out at the mind. However he was met with one thought not included within the walls she had set up in her mind.

_I do not know how to use magic, nor know the Ancient Language._

Eragon faltered.

_Please trust me. I truly mean no harm. I would swear in the Ancient Language but I do not know it. I can only beg you for your trust._

Eragon thought for a moment. _What is your disposition?_

Something flashed across the girl's eyes. _Varden sympathiser._

Eragon debated a moment in his mind. But he knew his decision already. Eragon couldn't keep the magic up at any rate, for if he met someone formidable, he needed all his magic for a fast getaway. He eased the magic up and watched as she rolled her shoulders. He didn't, however, withdraw from her mind. He lifted the stone and pushed it aside, wincing at the loud grating sound that occurred. He lifted himself out of the hole and replaced the stone then looked over at the girl blinking owlishly at him.

Through their mind link, he said, _My name is Eragon._

Eragon felt her surprise. _Milandi._

_So, Milandi,_ Eragon dusted himself off, _would you know where the location of the last dragon egg would be? It might have well been moved from the last time we tried to lay our hands on it._

_I do in fact. We may have a hard time getting to it though; you've ended up in the wrong side of the castle._

_Well, the earlier we start, the earlier I can get out of here and avoid getting my head snapped off by Shruikan._

They set off, Milandi using shortcuts made for servants, travelled by if ever they needed to get to one place fast, such as before the tea began to go cold (Eragon learnt that Galbatorix was a notorious tea drinker that ran though tea leaves like a scholar with books). They met many servants on their walk, but they never looked his way. Eragon guessed that with so many dangerous things that Galbatorix could have roaming around the palace, they had learnt to reign in their curiosity and the sight of a young man swathed in a dark, billowing cloak didn't perturb them. He took many glances at the servants from under his hood, and, though unsurprising as it was, was shocked to see how thin and drawn some looked. Their skin looked pallid grey, and many looked malnutritioned, commonly walked in a daze with their heads bowed. Eragon felt out of place, too healthy, too strong and too… fiery and passionate to be fit in this setting. Milandi was a bit on the thin side, but seemed better off than most. Thinking that she could have been reduced into such a state as others seemed an unbearable thought to Eragon and a feeling in him swelled. It was one he was familiar with, the need to protect her, alike to the feeling towards helping Roran when Katrina was taken. He wanted to let her taste real meat—make her plumper—, wanted to lead her to the sun and get rid of the sickly hue of her skin, wanted to show her the world as a place where she could live without the haunted look in her—and everyone else's—eyes. He wanted her to smile like everyone should be able to, no matter their status as King, Rider, farmer or servant.

Abruptly Milandi stopped. She stood still leaning against a secret door, ear pressed tightly against it. She gestured for Eragon to step back and she turned to face him, the one ear still listening. "These are the Red Rider's chambers. The way to the vault lies through his chambers. I don't hear any movements. Not sure though."

Eragon thought about sending a mind probe, but decided against it. What if there were sensitive people? He couldn't risk discovery just yet. If Murtagh was in there, he'd just have to appeal to his soft side (which, if Eragon thought about it, was disappearing rather rapidly. He'd just have to appeal to Murtagh's sense of survival and/or male ego. It depended on how far low Eragon was willing/had to go). He had managed to talked his way out of the Burning Plains (though in actuality it was the last shred of mercy Murtagh had and not by any means Eragon's theatricals) and made Murtagh listen to his idea of changing their true names (again, that wasn't because of Eragon. It was Thorn who reasoned with him).

Eragon nodded to Milandi, signalling for her to go on. Milandi pushed the door open and it led into a corridor. It wasn't lavishly decorated like previous, main chambers (who knew that Galbatorix loved his tapestries depicting him on Shruikan above a burning field and thick, plush carpet that felt too good under Eragon's travel-worn feet?); it was plain and cold, the stone walls gave off the feeling of being trapped and sucked all warmth from the body. Eragon wasn't surprised as flashiness and ostentation was not a part of Murtagh's character. This place expressed Murtagh's character all too well. Eragon found himself hunched over, his eyes darting from place to place and pulling his cloak even closer to his body.

Milandi stopped short in front of a flight of steps that lead downwards. "I'm not entirely sure of the way because I don't usually visit here. The way down to the vault is down either these stairs or next."

Eragon pondered on his choices. It was a fifty-fifty chance and really, if he was truthful to himself, Eragon didn't think that this task would be completed successfully. His escape route was cut off, having being on the other side of the palace, and he didn't have any back up, save Roran, who really can't save him at the moment. Now he wondered how he had convinced everyone to let him be the one to execute the plan. They all knew about the dangers and suddenly Eragon felt very foolish. Eragon shook his head, bringing him back to the present problem at hand.

"Let us go down these stairs. If they are not what we hope them to be, we will just have to make a quick retreat."

They descended into a stone tunnel lit with scant torches set in brackets. The stones that made the tunnel emitted an earthly, resentful cold. Eragon shivered. Both teenagers didn't bother with the fire, instead they padded through, their shoes making soft thuds, while Milandi's dress whispered. The air wasn't stale, but it was undisturbed, as if the air was a current that slowly moved on its way.

The tunnel opened into a dark hall, and Eragon almost expected the last egg to glow in the dark. But the only thing that broke the dark was a blot of sun somewhere in the distance, other than that it was complete darkness. The two shuffled forward, and suddenly Eragon became aware of breathing, but not his own. It was like the person (or monster more like from the way it quietly reverberated through the hall. It was deep and husky, and not at all human-like) was wounded. Eragon felt pity and compassion well up, but he quickly swatted it away, struggling with himself to maintain a quiet (and perhaps a little cold) mentality.

"Who goes there?" A voice startled Eragon out of his struggle, letting emotions run riot within him. Now he could feel his fear, taste the desolation and hear the pain of the dark. Eragon cringed and stopped. Milandi had also halted somewhere in front of him, neither of them moving, or even daring to breathe.

A silence ensued, broken when the same cracked voice whispered back to himself, "I'm hearing things?" Eragon's hand clasped the pommel of Brisingr, ready to draw. "The emptiness of the hall makes sound travel further and amplifies it. I know I'm not hearing things." Eragon stalked forwards, past the frozen shape of Milandi, left hand on Brisinger, right hand held palm outwards with one of the twelve words of death already upon his tongue. "No. It hasn't gotten to me yet. I'll be strong and maybe I'll yet survive. Who knows really? Galbatorix wouldn't, the crazy cote has gone beyond all logical reasoning now. The Varden—" The voice broke off. Eragon kept stalking forwards. "Yes, yes. I know."

Eragon glimpsed a movement in the dark. Then suddenly red flashed where the beam of sunlight reached into the hall and Eragon threw himself sideways, just as a gush of fire came rushing down. He landed with a dull thump and rolled over. A dark figure, presumably Milandi, laid sprawled some distance behind him, looking unharmed. Eragon turned towards the cracked voice—and realised that the voice was Murtagh's under great stress and torture—and weighed his chances.

"Are you hallucinating too, Thorn? Clearly there was no one there." A shuffling sound made by Thorn. "He said that if we were to _see_ Eragon and Saphira we were to capture them, use them against the Varden." Eragon's eyes narrowed at the stressed word.

Eragon wondered if Murtagh was thinking of a loophole when he stressed the word 'see'. It obviously didn't extend to hearing. Still, as a precaution, his placed his hands in readiness before finding his voice and tentatively ventured to ask, "Hello?"

"Hello to you too, Eragon's voice."

"Uhh, Murtagh?"

"That'll be me."

"Could you…?" Eragon licked his dry lips. "Could you tell us where we are?"

"You're in the hall specially designed for Thorn." A pause. Then to Thorn, Murtagh said, "There's nothing in the package about giving the location of the last egg away, but I'm pretty sure that Galbatorix would be incensed to know if we told."

"Murtagh, please. As your brother"—half-brother, Eragon mentally reminded himself—"I beg of you. Let go of some of your hatred. You can forgive, you don't have to forget—"

"You weren't the one who was abandoned by our mother! You weren't the one who was abused by our father! You aren't the one in this mess! You don't have to suffer what I have to suffer. You don't have to face Galbatorix's wrath for even the tiniest of wrongdoings. No. You don't have people whispering. You don't have people deliberately making your day worse. You don't have to sit in the dark waiting for your next trial. No, you don't have your freedom taken away from you. So don't give me the 'forgiving' crap, because it just doesn't work like that. You wouldn't know anything, Eragon, so don't give me a lecture."

Eragon was silent. Well, what can you say to an outburst like that? "It's true that I don't know—"

"So, shut up. There's nothing more to discuss."

"May I finish? Then we can digress." Eragon waited a second and, taking the silence as a reluctant yes, he ploughed on. "It's true that I don't know anything about the things that you've gone through, but... I want this war over as much as you, even if we want it for altogether entirely different reasons. I for the people; you for yourself. But I want to help you, Murtagh, because you are my brother, my sole surviving immediate blood relative, because we are fellow Dragon Riders, but importantly because you are my friend. Please, Murtagh, give my suggestion a go at least. You'll never know... Isn't it better to know rather than wonder about the 'what if's? You can wonder all you like as you sit here in the dark, while Arya, Nasuada, Roran and I are long gone. Yes, I'm acknowledging that this war is futile, that we're like desperate kittens holding onto a log in a flood, but I would rather know than sit back and ponder when my hair is white. At heart, I'm still that curious farm boy that found Saphira's egg, though I may wear the guise of a Rider. You're still the boy I knew who saved me from the Ra'zac, who helped break me out of prison, who fought Durza with me in the first round. And you were there when I woke and tried to comfort me when I had the scar—"

"But you don't now."Murtagh sighed. "Door to the east at the very back, where you came from. That's what you're looking for. Now scat. The dark isn't meant to talk back to me."

Eragon quickly acted upon the cue and scrambled to get up and away. He grabbed a slightly bewildered Milandi as he raced with as silent footsteps as he could manage in his haste. Reaching the end of the hall, he stretched out his hands and felt his way to the door, but before passing through he whispered three words into the dark: 'Thank you, Murtagh.' Then he was on his way sprinting down the hall, with Milandi trailing somewhere behind him. If he stopped and paused for consideration, he would have found Milandi silently gasping for breath, her body not used to this much physical exercise. But he didn't, so he continued down, Murtagh filling his thoughts until he plunged into an all-consuming darkness, broken only by the soft green glow emitting from the centre of the hall. Milandi's soft footfalls came to a rest somewhere behind him. Silence rang for a long time.

Then suddenly Eragon acted. Hand on Aren, mind slaving to clear all magic away, tossing them aside like the annoying spider webs they are. Milandi sensibly stayed away tittering on the threshold. Eragon fought his way –surprisingly—quite easily to the green egg , and he wondered how. Surely Galbatorix had not gotten weaker…

Eragon whispered the last of a counter-spell on the egg, before he grabbed it, hid it under his cloak and hightailed out of there. They ran up two flights of stairs identical to the set that led down into Murtagh and Thorn's chamber and dashed into the servant's tunnel. Taking a two second respite, with Eragon checking back down the hallway for signs of pursuit and contacting Roran to say they have the egg, and they were off again, rushing past servants giving cursory glances but they were never questioned. In fact, the escape to the secret tunnel was so smooth, Eragon started to suspect that was Galbatorix was probably playing a trick on him, making him feel safe when he really is plotting something on his big throne.

Either way, the two agents snuck out of the castle, as quietly and slippery as when Eragon stole in. Roran pushed the boulder back into place, and they merged with the shadows. They took alleyways, Milandi in the lead, and got to the northern gate in good time. They rested there, still yet on alert. They would have to wait until dawn for the gates to open, so they selected a small inn and rested there.

As the first few streaks of dawn peaked through the window, the three fugitives were already on their way through the gate and into the wilderness beyond. They rode for three days straight on bought horses, Milandi holding onto Eragon for her dear life. Eragon kept the egg in a rough sack under his cloak at all times. At the end of the three days they finally reached the Varden camp, toppled off their horses and walked towards Nausada's tent on unstable legs. All the while, the Varden cheered at the return of their saviour, a great clamour was made yet they dared not go anywhere near the Rider. Eragon was not disturbed by it; though he had proven himself loyal to their cause so many times, it was natural to fear someone more powerful than them.

Eragon, Roran and Milandi crashed into the tent, the guards giving them leeway, and silently to the greatest apprehension of those inside, Eragon produced the green egg. A collective gasp was heard. Then one by one, Nasuada, Orrin, Orrik, Arya… they came up to Eragon who was grinning like a Cheshire cat, and clapped him on the back, congratulating him in their own way.

"Marvellous! To think that we now have the last egg!"

"Never in mine years have I seen such a beautiful day as this!"

"With this we can bring Galbatorix down. Well down, Argetlam!"

"But we still have yet to find its Rider." Arya's voice rang clear throughout the tent. "The time to celebrate is not now. The only time we can truly celebrate is when Galbatorix is no longer king and when we have seen the new age begin."

The thoughts of the people in the tent could not be described in their language, but in twenty-first century modern English there is a term that would summarise their general discontent towards Arya. That word is 'party-poop'. As it was, none of them could voice their thoughts aloud anyways otherwise they wanted to be turned into a tree by the elf, besides what she said was also true.

With a sigh, Nasuada plopped back down into her seat. "It took us beyond for ever to find Saphira's Rider. Oh, speak of the Devil and he shall appear! Welcome, Saphira. Am I correct to assume that Eragon has filled you in?"

Saphira, whose head now poked through where the fourth wall of the tent was, gave one snort. _Yes_.

"Good. We can use you to sniff out potential Riders."

_Potential Riders depend on the choice and preference of the Dragon. I cannot choose nor discern which would be fit for my kinsmen._

Nasuada blinked.

"It seems your plan has a flaw in it," Orrin said dryly.

"Were you not just congratulating Eragon just now? You were the one who—"

Eragon tuned out the argument as Arya, Orrik, Roran and others joined in. There had been several fights in the past, and now with the tension escalating to new heights, it happened every meeting. Eragon, being a pacifist, never joined those fights, indeed tried as hard as he could to be absent during those rows. Their loud voices grated painfully against his elf-keen ears.

"May I see the egg, Eragon?" Milandi's voice floated from somewhere beside him.

Absentmindedly, he handed the egg over, still wrapped in the coarse sack. He sat reclined in his chair and relaxed, hoping that this argument end before the sun goes down. Saphira was somehow interested in the argument and paid little to no attention to him, not that he minded at all. No, not when he really needed is a nice cup of tea and a good conversation.

Suddenly everyone jumped. Eragon's eyes were wide and he slowly turned towards Milandi.

Crack.

Thin spidery cracks appeared on the surface of the end, and everyone looked on in a trance.

Crack. Crack. Tap. Tap.

A small green snout emerged out. To Eragon, he was reliving the moment Saphira had hatched.

A flash, two yelps.

And Milandi was branded with the silver palm.

Suddenly everyone was asking her questions as if she had just appeared from thin air. 'Who are you? Are you a member of the Varden? Are you new? I've never seen you before. What's your name?'

Milandi snapped her head up. "My name is Milandi."

"Do you have a surname?"

"Yes." Short and curt.

"Well, what is it?"

Milandi's face turned into stone. "Feysdaughter. Milandi Feysdaughter."

"Fey!?" An outcry, leaving Eragon confused. "Then you are the illegitimate daughter of Fey and Galbatorix!"

"What?" That was Roran, just as puzzled as Eragon was.

"Fey," Arya answered, then paused. "Fey was a noblewoman who was disposed by her family for reasons unknown. As the story goes, she wanted power to prove to her family that by getting rid of her they were losing a great asset. She was ambitious and that was her downfall. She became one of Galbatorix's favourite concubines. That being said, she concentrated all her efforts into becoming pregnant with his child. Rumour states that Galbatorix was afraid that she wanted to take over the Empire and so had her executed, however I find it more likely that he killed her in a fit of rage, otherwise he would have had this… _girl_ executed as well."

Eragon sat back, shocked… To think he was…

Nasuada called for the guards and Milandi was manhandled out of the tent, the young dragon fighting them. It was all a blur of colour to Eragon. A blur that mirrored the thoughts in his head, that reflected his feelings. He roused himself out of his stupor and caught Saphira's eye. It shone a sad blue, dark and dull that spoke empathetically to him.

And the words came back to haunt him.

_Be careful of who you love for fate has a morbid interest in our family._

* * *

"Thank you, Murtagh."

Murtagh's lips twitched in a grimace.

_What do you propose to do when Galbatorix finds out?_

"Find's out what, Thorn? That I hallucinate?"

_You do know—_

"Shhh Thorn. Let us just rest. We still need to be ready for the final battle."

Thorn consented, settling down to wrap his tail around Murtagh like he saw Saphira do with Eragon in Murtagh's memories.

_We will help Eragon in every way that we can_.

* * *

**A/N**: The end was a bit rushed. Hmmm. Oh well. This was a personal challenge for me, so see if I can start a story and actually finish it. This is my first fic in Inheritance fandom, and I don't really read the ones actually set in the Inheritance universe (hints: sussiekitten) so I actually don't know if this is cliched. But that really doesn't matter.

As I said before, this is a personal challenge, and it now has me geared up for my on haitus fic! That's not to say that I don't want reviews!

**X. TANgled**


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